Conversations
by zarabithia
Summary: One year after Trip's death, T'Pol and her daughter visit his grave.


**Conversations**

**Rating: PG**

**Genre: Future Fic, Character Death, Angst**

**Disclaimer: If I owned _Enterprise_or the characters, the finale would be much different and certainly wouldn't include Riker. **

**Summary: One year after Trip's death, T'Pol and their daughter visit his grave. **

**A/N: I've been scoring 6th grade writing lately. So if there are any odd spelling/grammar mistakes, that's why. **

* * *

I wait until the fourth chime of my daughter's alarm before I pause in the preparation of the morning meal. As I walk down the narrow corridor that leads to T'Mir's room, I allow myself the indulgence of lingering – for the second time today – by the photos that hang slightly askew on our walls. The thought occurs to me – as it often does – that I should straighten the frames. Their tilting appearance is out of place in a proper Vulcan household.

It is fortunate, then, that we have never been an entirely proper Vulcan family.

My daughter's room does not immediately demonstrate the lack of propriety in our home. Her room is as sparse as any typical eight year old Vulcan's should be. Her desk holds only a neatly compiled stack of PADDS, a computer console, and a paper copy of _The Teachings of Surak. _As with most Vulcan children, T'Mir's toys are neatly placed within the large chest resting inside her closet.

Upon closer inspection, remnants of her father's culture become much more evident. Buried in her chest of toys, in addition to several logical puzzles and a chess set, lie a set of jacks, several decks of playing cards, and more than one brightly colored board game, the pieces of which have managed to work themselves into the lining of T'Mir's closet, underneath the dining table, and in the food processor, regardless of my daughter's tidiness. Her human heritage is also apparent by the stuffed lavender rabbit that remains in her clutches beneath her immaculately made bed. The rabbit's nose becomes visible over the top of the covers, when I reach down and tap T'Mir's shoulder gently.

"T'Mir, wake up."

At the sound of my voice, her eyes open to reveal her human half yet again. The bright blue of her eyes reminds me so strongly of her father that I have to fight to keep my voice steady when I speak. "T'Mir, your alarm has sounded four times."

"Today is the eighteenth," she murmurs, rapidly waking up.

"Yes."

"Daddy's day."

It is not a question, so I do not answer. "Get dressed. Breakfast is nearly prepared. After we eat, we will proceed to the cemetery."

She nods and begins to sit up. Satisfied that she is finally truly waking up, I leave her to get dressed in private.

As I walk back towards the kitchen, I increase my speed so that the reminders hanging in the hallway blur past. However, I do not walk quickly enough to escape the sight of the first picture ever taken of our family. It was taken aboard _Enterprise_by Phox and the Captain's left hand can be seen clearly touching the tops of T'Mir's very pointed ears, if one looks close enough. This morning, I choose not to.

It typically takes T'Mir 33 minutes to bathe, dress herself, and perform her morning meditation ritual.

_"If she takes that long now, T'Pol, just think how long it'll take her when she's a teenager." _

_"She requires a minimum of fifteen minutes to meditate. Which part of her routine would you prefer her to shortchange? Her bathing?" _

_"It'd probably affect you more than me. Superior Vulcan smell, and all that. Speaking of which, do you still think I stink?"_

_"I would think the answer obvious by now."_

Today, it takes T'Mir only twenty-two minutes to arrive in the kitchen. Because of the significance of the date, I do not protest when my half-human child reaches for the box of candy-coated cereal instead of the plomeek broth I have prepared. I cannot scold her for not eating anything of sustenance, when I cannot fore the broth past my lips.

For approximately five minutes, the only sound is that of my daughter crunching her cereal. Abruptly, however, T'Mir breaks the relative silence. "Mother, I spoke to Harriet Archer yesterday evening."

"I am aware of your computer log, T'Mir." On another day, I shall inform my daughter that she need not spend a full forty-five minutes in conversation to one person. It seems inappropriate to lecture her on the talkativeness which is yet another Tucker trait.

"Well," she continues, carefully pushing only the red cereal loops deeper into the milk, "I told her where I was going today, and she said that when she goes to visit her Mommy, they have conversations."

This calls for the type of delicacy that is frequently beyond my grasp. Not for the first time, I yearn for my companion to be here, helping me raise our child. "That is very unlikely, T'Mir. Harriet's mother passed in the same battle as your father. They cannot have _conversations." _

"They are not truly _conversations, _Mother," she explains patiently, and I wonder how many years it will be until her patience at my inability to fully understand her will cease. "But Harriet talks to her Mother – and Harriet's daddy believes that maybe she can hear them."

More delicacy that I am not suited for is required. "Perhaps Admiral Archer is incorrect."

"But maybe. . . _perhaps _he is not, Mother. I – I intend to speak with Daddy, when we visit the gravesite."

"Very well." I used to be better at expressing my point of view with my daughter. Now, I merely wait for her to finish placing her food in the sink. Finally, we depart our increasingly empty house and head towards the cemetery.

* * *

One year ago, when my husband was buried in Starfleet Memorial Cemetery, there were only twenty other bodies buried here. It seemed an appropriately small number for a burial site devoted to the most elite of those Starfleet has lost.

Today there are 120. That number seems too large to be labeled "elite." Old concerns from Soval and the High Command about humans being too violent and not ready for space travel resurface in my memory until the remaining 119 fade from my concentration as T'Mir and I near my husband's tomb. I remain two steps behind my daughter, and allow myself to wonder if I would be at Trip's gravesite if we had not had a daughter together.

It is quite unlikely. Vulcans do not, as a rule, visit the site where their cherished are buried. Mount Seleya is an obvious exception. However, my people regard Mount Seleya as a place of knowledge and enlightenment, not merely a place of mourning. Regardless, T'Mir was not merely my daughter alone. She was also Trip's.

_"There is, of course, the matter of how we will raise a child together."_

_"What's there to discuss? We'll love her, and do the best we can, just like parents are supposed to."_

_"I was referring to the prospect of her heritage. Vulcans and humans –"_

_"Are pretty different.__ Yet, we managed anyway, didn't we?"_

_"Eventually."_

_"It won't be that hard, T'Pol. We'll simply make sure our child is exposed to both human and Vulcan traditions. She'll have the best of both worlds." _

We used that principle as the guide in raising our daughter for seven years. Following Trip's death, I have frequently struggled in presenting T'Mir with the human perspective, with a difficulty that Trip would not have known, had our circumstances been reversed.

One thing is certain. During the course of our union, Trip frequently visited the burial site of Elizabeth Tucker. I accompanied him twice.

_"I want to introduce you."_

_"It will do no good to point out the lapse in your logic, will it?"_

_"Nope."_

_"Very well.__ I shall accompany you."_

It is for that reason that I ignore my own discomfort and kneel beside T'Mir when she has not spoken for several minutes.

"Were you not planning to . . ._converse_with the tombstone today, T'Mir?"

"I don't know what to say."

"It is always appropriate to begin a . . . _conversation_. . . with a salutation."

"But, Mother, don't you believe that would be silly?"

I do, of course, find this entire ritual ridiculous. However, when T'Mir looks up at me with the eyes that she inherited from her father, I lose my resolve to say so. Further, I can only wonder what else she will be able to accomplish without my consent with those eyes.

"Because we're here, and Daddy's here. I fail to see the _logic _in beginning with a greeting."

It is very difficult to find logic where none exists. "All conversations begin that way, T'Mir."

She turns back to the tombstone, and I wonder if I should have consulted Phlox before bringing her here. I could quite likely be contributing to a lifetime of mental mal-adjust and significant time with the healers of Mount Seleya.

"Hello, Daddy." Yet again my daughter pauses and looks at me for direction. "What do I do now?"

"I am not certain. This was your idea. Did you not discuss what Harriet _discusses_ with her mother?"

"Yes. She says she tells her about what is going on in her life."

"Then perhaps that is how you should proceed."

T'Mir again turns back towards the tombstone. I would return to an upright position, but her continued hesitation prevents me from doing so. "T'Mir?"

"I do not . . . know how, Mother. Could you go first?"

I have every intention of saying no. When T'Mir's tiny hand wraps itself around mine, however, I am compelled to do whatever I can to help her, even including this highly emotional and nonsensical display of emotion.

"Hello, Trip." It becomes obvious why my daughter has such difficulty with this "conversation." But she is depending upon me, and I am the only parent she has left to depend on. "I'm certain you realize how. . . out of character this _conversation _would be from me. However, in accordance to a vow we once made to one another, I am doing my best to make sure our daughter fully experiences both sides of her heritage.

"It is also in accordance to that promise that I have continued to allow the friendship with Harriet Archer to continue, though I am quite certain that I would prefer our child to associate with an angry Orion at this point."

"Mother!"

"Harriet's chemical experiments leave much to be desired."

"Mother, I don't think Daddy would want to hear about _that." _

"On the contrary, if your father were alive, he would be _most interested _in Ms. Archer's chemical endeavors. As an engineer, he would be quite horrified at the lack of scientific protocol."

"_Mother."_

"They were attempting to build a replica of the warp engine, or so I have been told. Why this required animal fecal matter, I do not know."

"Maybe we should tell Daddy what's going on with Harriet's daddy."

"Perhaps. Would you like to take over?"

"But, Mother, you know Admiral Archer better than I do."

On another day, T'Mir and I will converse about the difference between _truth _and _almost truths. _"Very well. Trip, since you've passed, Admiral Archer has been promoted to Chief of Starfleet Operations. The position is new, and primarily involves deskwork, but he has taken to the position much better than Phlox feared he would. Speaking of Phlox, he remains Chair of the Interspecies Medical Exchange, and recently welcomed his first great-granddaughter."

"We should tell Daddy about the wedding!" My daughter realizes her lapse in control almost immediately, and her cheeks turn a dark green.

Her father was quite fond of her green blood. I would have preferred it to be red.

"After much pretense and ignorance of the obvious, Lieutenant Commander Reed and Lieutenant Sato were married three months ago. Phlox commented that he had only known one other couple as stubborn, and though I understood his subtext, I am certain he is mistaken. Vulcans do not experience stubbornness."

From my side, my daughter speaks up. "They had pineapple cake, Daddy. It was quite good, and I think I liked it better than pecan pie." T'Mir's lips purse together, and for a moment my memory wanders to another cherished man I lost, this one buried on Vulcan. "I hope that's okay."

"Your father would not have minded, T'Mir, that you enjoyed the cake."

"Good. Tell him about Lieutenant Mayweather, now."

"You're certain you do not wish to?"

"Nope. But, oh! Do you suppose that Daddy knows what _chips _are in English?"

"Your father was well versed in food, T'Mir, and he spent a large amount of time with Commander Reed."

"Okay. But I still like American chips better."

"They are equally unhealthy. In any event, Lieutenant Mayweather and his wife attended the wedding as well. They are both still serving on the _USS Horizon, _as the lieutenant has an unhealthy emotional attachment to that name."

"And," my daughter adds, making me wonder why her Vulcan grammar is perfect, yet her first language is not. "Lieutenant Mayweather brought me back a copy of _Romeo and Juliet _written in Klingon. I don't know how to read it yet, but Hoshi promised she'd teach me."

"Indeed. The entire former bridge crew of _Enterprise_seems determined to undermine any attempts at limitations and boundaries I might set for T'Mir."

T'Mir looks puzzled for a moment. "Oh. Is that what Phlox meant when he said I was well on my way to 'getting spoiled.'?"

"I believe so."

"But Mother, I was the first _Enterprise_baby."

"As I was in labor with you for 47 hours, I believe I am aware of that fact. Perhaps you would like to discuss the numerous other activities your first born status has entitled you to?"

T'Mir nods, and this time when she turns back to the tombstone, she doesn't hesitate. I listen as she talks, her voice alternating between formal Vulcan-speak and the rambling nature that is as much her father's as are her eyes. She speaks of Water Polo games with the Admiral and Harriet, fencing matches with Commander Reed, language lessons with Hoshi, and random dinners with Dr. Phlox, as well as the frequent visit from Lieutenant Mayweather. Eventually her discussion drifts into her school activities and life on Earth as a half-human child.

"Sometimes," she says, "It's difficult. But sometimes it's not, and I guess I wouldn't want to be different, because then I'd have different parents, and I wouldn't want that."

Nor would I.

"I miss you, Daddy, and we'll see you next year."

I reach my hand out and take T'Mir's offered hand. "I miss you too, Trip." The action is highly emotional, and inappropriate for a Vulcan.

But then, we have never been an entirely proper Vulcan family.

* * *

The End. 


End file.
